


crawl home to you

by slyther_ing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Food, Greek god au, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, M/M, Pomegranates, basically the flintwood version, gargoyles are a great plot device, of hades and persephone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-28 23:22:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8466889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyther_ing/pseuds/slyther_ing
Summary: The story of Persephone - or how Marcus Flint found a lover who must constantly leave.





	

A man appears, sprawled on the wine red carpet in front of him, three minutes after Marcus realizes something is missing from his chambers.

The brunet blinks up at Marcus, seemingly unfazed by the sudden drop into the underworld. Not a man then, Marcus thinks, because mortals scream and beg and babble their good will once they catch sight of him.

“Shit.” The brunet curses under his breath, pale fingers gripping soft velvet behind him.

“I don’t take kindly to intruders.” Marcus says, dark eyebrow arched, and he wonders how exactly this mortal (being, not a mortal, Marcus reminds himself), all doe-eyed and dewy skinned, managed to find his way into hell.

“I didn’t particularly _choose_ to be here.” The brunet retorts, tossing what Marcus recognizes as one of the pomegranates he had on display in the dining hall. Red skin and glistening ruby kernels - for the first time, Marcus traces the dripping juice of the fruit back up to the brunet’s lips.

Pink, luscious, almost too pretty to be on so limber a body. Marcus cocks his head to the side, patient, as the brunet scrambles to his feet. The fruit rolls to a stop in front of Marcus, glistening innocently.

“Why?” The brunet spits out, arms crossed and Marcus watches the muscles flex, dips and shadows swaying in the fire light.

“Why what?”

“Why did you -” The brunet runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Look, I’m Oliver. My mother is in charge of the harvest, which you probably know, and I demand an explanation of why you’ve taken me from her and down to this dingy hell-hole.”

Marcus picks up the pomegranate, takes a long appraising look at his surrounding golden hearth. “Dingy.”

The brunet - Oliver - throws his hands up. Marcus snorts - obviously he’s been trained in the art of drama, as the ones who reside on Olympus are so keen to do.

“Fine. You live in splendor and glory, but excuse me for not being impressed about being _abducted_.” Brown eyes flash dangerously, and Marcus finds himself impressed that such a demure mother had managed to raise someone who, by first impressions, is a spitfire.

Marcus sits down heavily at his seat, gems embedded on the arms of the throne cool under his palm. “Abducted, you say. No one told you to eat the pomegranate.”

Oliver bites his lips, momentarily embarrassed. “Well. Well - look, this man offered it to me, alright? Said it was the best of the harvest and I’m not one to turn down the fruit of my mother’s labors,” He lifts his chin up defiantly. “How was I to know it’d drag me down _here._ ”

Marcus smiles indulgently - his guest is just too _amusing_ to needle. “Didn’t listen to the myths then. Well -” He sweeps his arm, gestures to the broad hall and Oliver follows his movement, brown eyes pausing on the gargoyles snickering near the ceiling.

“Make yourself comfortable, Oliver. This will be your home for the next six months.”

Oliver stares. “Six months,” He says coldly, “Six.”

“Six.” Marcus smiles, teeth sharp. “After all, it’s the rule of the Underworld.”

Before Oliver can protest, stamp his foot, no doubt, like the petulant children Olympus churns out, Marcus sweeps out of the room. “And thank you. For bringing back something I was missing.”

The crashing of furniture issues in Marcus’ wake, Oliver no doubt throwing something against the cold marble floor in rage. Marcus smirks - finally, he’ll be able to have some fun.

*******

Their first meal together is cold.

Not the food, of course - for all Lucius likes to preen and boast about the fair springs of Olympus, of the warmth and comfort and golden, gilded cotton candy clouds, Marcus knows his realm lives up to standard. It’s a different type of standard, for sure, but the plate in front of him is delicately assembled, steaming fragrantly, and any mortal would turn around and beg for just one more bite.

Oliver, however, seems to have cut out his appetite altogether. He doesn’t so much as touch a utensil, choosing to stare sullenly down at the silken tablecloth.

“Wasting away,” Marcus remarks, “Is for the dead.”

“Aren’t I as good as?” Oliver huffs.

Marcus sneers across the long stone table, candlelight making the downturn of Oliver’s mouth that much more obvious. “Only mortals die. And you seem to be made of something other than just flesh and blood.”

If Marcus were capable of dying, the look Oliver sends him would have embedded him deep into the pits of hell. But that’s not the case, so Marcus takes a bite of his food, fingers picking at cold grapes.

“Oh joy,” Oliver says, sardonic and cynical. “Yes, why don’t I eat some bread, and devote ten more years of my life here?” He shoves the plate, loud screech making Marcus’ left eyelid twitch.

“You’ll be here for longer than that, ultimately.” Marcus remarks. There’s a very pregnant pause as the man opposite him processes the words.

“You said six months.” Oliver hisses, fist clenched around a silver dagger (meant for spreading butter, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

Marcus takes a slow sip of wine. “Six months - of each year.”

The dagger lands neatly by his hand, missing it by a hair’s width. Marcus flicks it away with a lazy wave, impressed that Oliver had thrown with enough force to make the dull tip sink into the table.

“Fuck you.” The gargoyles titter at Oliver’s words, obviously amused that someone so obviously preened on Olympus has _such_ a vocabulary. Oliver storms off, shoves the great chair back with another long cacophonic noise, muttering curses all the way. Marcus can hear his steps pace furiously down the halls.

He can’t say he’s looking forward to breakfast tomorrow. Marcus snaps his fingers and then Adrian appears by his side, already awaiting instructions.

“Make sure,” Marcus says, watching the candle wick drip slowly down into the ornate holder, “That he doesn’t hurt himself in his rage.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you cared.”

Marcus rolls his eyes. “Oh please, Adrian. Don’t flatter him.”

*******

Adrian’s observation, however silly, might just be accurate, Marcus thinks, as he watches Oliver pace angrily back and forth the hearth. Normally - normally he wouldn’t put up with such antics, would banish whoever stumbles in out into the flames, but Oliver is intriguing.

A breath of fresh air, almost, in this constant state of death. It’s set something stirring in his chest that he’s long buried away, thought it dead alongside all the souls he must manage.

“Do you miss your home that much?” Marcus asks, curious. He’s never been one for Olympus, never felt at place with all the gleaming, golden gods and their dainty laughs and frivolities and halos. The underworld fits him, keeps him wrapped in familiar darkness.

Oliver doesn’t stop his incessant pacing, but his eyes dart to meet Marcus’. “I don’t like being held against my will.”

“It’s the rules.” Marcus says simply - as if he plays by the rules.

Oliver grits his teeth. “What can I do to get out of this?”

“Nothing.” Marcus says. “So the least you can do is try to enjoy.”

The harsh bark of laughter Marcus receives is loud and nasty in the cold echoing room. Oliver’s eyes flash dangerously, and for a moment, Marcus wonders what exactly he gets up to, up in the land of the living.

“Enjoy. What is there to enjoy here? Everything’s dead.”

Marcus rises to his feet, and Oliver stands firm, holds his ground as Marcus sweeps by him.

“I’m not dead. You’re not dead. Adrian, who kindly put together a room for you, is not dead. That’s not everything.”

And curiosity seems to overrun anger and agitation for Oliver, because he follows Marcus out through a set of heavy iron doors. Marcus can feel the burn of Oliver’s gaze on the back of his neck, but he steps calmly out into the back garden. He feels more than hears Oliver’s breathy exhale.

The garden isn’t for the souls of the condemned - it’s for the few handfuls of guests that Marcus entertains on the off chance they arrive in the Underworld on business. And it’s in full bloom, courtesy of Marcus’ careful tending, the flowers blooming brilliant white against dark bushes.

“Narcissus flowers,” Marcus says, gesturing towards his feet, and then with another flick of his fingers - “Pomegranates, oranges, apples.” There are no seasons in the Underworld, which means everything flourishes all at once. If Marcus wants them to, of course.

Oliver stands, staring at the lushness in front of him and Marcus waits, waits for the moment where the lull and charm of the garden will break and Oliver will storm off once again.

But he doesn’t. Just stands there, transfixed, and when he turns to give Marcus a look - a straight look, this time, not one of contempt or anger, just plain _observing_ , Marcus finds he can’t look back.

Oliver plucks a low-hanging pomegranate, turns the red fruit over and over in his hands, and then he brushes past Marcus without a word.

*******

After that -

Well, after that, Marcus isn’t sure what Oliver is thinking. Normally, he can place his guests into two categories - the unnecessarily brash, and the shivering cowards. He’d been ready to place Oliver in the first sort but now the god just slips around the place like a ghost.

He’s pale enough to be one, anyways, skin no longer kissed by the sun. Adrian shows up in his chambers one night, expression conflicted and somewhat stern.

“Marcus, a word?”

“You’re already disrupting me, aren’t you?”

Adrian isn’t amused, apparent by the straight line of his brow. “It’s about your - guest.”

“Mm. Is he throwing things at the walls again?”

“No,” Adrian says slowly, “It’s not that. But he hasn’t touched a speck of food in the past week, at least not that I’ve seen.”

Marcus sits up abruptly. “What do you mean?”

Adrian rolls his eyes, and Marcus allows him because there’s information to be had. “I mean, you never see him at meals do you?”

“Yes, but I have you deliver food to his room.” Marcus says, slowly shifting the pieces together in his head.

“He never touches it. Comes back as is,” Adrian watches sternly as Marcus leans back again, forges on. “The others will have your head if you let one of their own waste away.”

“It’s his choice, if he wants to throw a temper tantrum.” Marcus says, note of finality pressing in his voice. And Adrian flounders a bit before sighing and wandering back out.

But Marcus can’t help it when he starts noticing the untouched trays of food, the extra angles of Oliver’s face when they pass in the halls. The brunet never shows up to meals; instead, Marcus only ever manages to catch him when he’s exiting the garden. Oliver is always there, in the immediate room, but the young god leaves before Marcus can say anything.

It always seems like Oliver is on the verge of asking for _something_ , but Marcus can’t be sure what. He can’t be sure, until one day he bars the doors shut before Oliver can leave, and then he’s being stared at by confused brown eyes.

“What,” Marcus huffs, “Are you doing loitering around?”

Oliver shuffles his feet, and for the first time since he’d literally dropped into the Underworld, he looks _shy._ Bashful, even, and Marcus gets the sudden image of Oliver, doe-eyed and blushing up at him. When Oliver bites his lip, pink flesh drawn up, Marcus almost wants to run away.

“Was just,” Oliver takes a deep breath, and then the shoulders go back, steel back in his voice. “The garden. Could I see the garden again?”

Marcus stares for a moment, then gestures vaguely with a sweep of his arm. “Yes. I wasn’t aware I was stopping you.”

But Oliver doesn’t bother responding - at Marcus’ agreement, he’s striding swiftly to the big iron doors, heaves them open with more strength than Marcus thought possible from his now-leaner limbs, and rushed out to the garden.

Marcus can’t fight his curiosity, because people love his garden, yes, but rarely is there such a spark in their eyes as there is now in Oliver’s. Brown eyes rove around, as if drinking in the greenery and Oliver is tracing his fingers over everything - branches, fruits, leaves.

“I wasn’t aware you loved vegetation this much.” Marcus tries feebly, because Oliver is biting into a ripe peach and the juice is dribbling down his chin. He kind of wants to catch it with his tongue. Marcus shakes himself at the thought.

Oliver swallows his bite, visibly relaxed now. “Grew up around it. Silly of you to assume I _wouldn’t_ be.”

Marcus watches Oliver pick another pomegranate, red starkingly vibrant against pale skin. The garden seems to preen under Oliver’s sight and touch and Marcus feels almost warm at the sight. To have someone so interested - it’s rare.

The pomegranate is cracked in half now, red dripping on Oliver’s fingers and staining his tunic where he brushes his hands. It looks like blood, but Marcus reminds himself that god’s don’t bleed.

Sometimes, he wonders what immortals are supposed to do with all this time. This long, long stretch of forever. It’s dull, even for him, the one who takes away mortals to their fate.

Oliver pads forward, barefooted, and he’s holding a single seed in between his forefinger and thumb. Before Marcus can react, the fruit is being nudged gently against his lips.

“A truce, if you will.” Oliver says, and the faintest smile is stirring on his features.

Marcus parts his mouth automatically, feels the faint brush of Oliver’s fingers, warm, so warm against his lips. The seed bursts, tangy sweet, and Marcus feels a jolt in his stomach, as Oliver keeps watching him with intent. He tells himself it’s trick of time, when Oliver’s hand lingers for a little longer than necessary.

When Oliver brushes past, he tells Marcus goodnight.

*******

They start living together, instead of cohabitating. Sometimes, Oliver knocks, careful, on Marcus’ chamber door and they end up reading together in the dim firelight. Meals aren’t quite as boring now - Oliver still poking at most of it, but he always eats better after spending time in the garden.

And their time in the garden - they circle each other, never fully interacting, except when Marcus points out a new flowering shrub, a fruit that’s riper this evening.

Sometimes, Marcus looks at Oliver and notices the sharp lines of his jaw. Sharper now than before but he’s eating at least, joining Marcus for meals more often than not.

“What do you do here, anyways?” Oliver asks one day, when they’re sitting in his room and Marcus is skimming through lists and lists and lists. “Besides the garden.”

“Two months here and you ask me that?” Marcus raises an eyebrow. One of the lists flits to the ground and Oliver watches the movement. “You know, when you’re lazing in bed, I go out and do what I need to do.”

“Take lives.” Oliver’s head lolls back, stares at the ceiling, and his Adam’s apple bobs prominently when he swallows.

Marcus doesn’t even bother hiding his staring - Oliver doesn’t notice, anyways. “I go to people who’re ready for it.”

“Pretty sure I’ve heard horror stories of you and your hounds dragging some poor mortal to Hell.”

“ _I_ know they’re ready,” Marcus corrects himself, not sure _why_ he’s explaining to this god who should be as insolent as the rest. “They might not.”

There’s a pause, before Oliver inhales, breath loud even with the crackling fire. “Would you have dragged me down here? If the pomegranate hadn’t worked.”

The remaining two lists falls to the ground as Marcus stands, the burn pushing through his chest and the flames in the firepit flicker higher. Oliver starts, eyes widening and Marcus remembers that he’s never seen Marcus truly _angry_. A barked order here and there, perhaps, but not anything like this.

And this - this is Marcus wounded, because for all their dancing around each other, he’d thought the young god had realized that he’d never - would never - how could Oliver even _say_ -

“I didn’t even know you existed.” Marcus says coldly, and if Oliver flinches, well. It doesn’t make the ache in Marcus’ chest _worse_ , per se.

Oliver gets to his feet, cowed, eyes still trained on Marcus’ face, and he slinks out of the room a moment afterwards. Marcus takes a deep breath and crashes back down in his chair, runs a hand over his face.

He’s been doing this for ages, thicker coat of armor than the span of centuries. Yet this one stubborn bastard of a god is getting under his skin.

Marcus sees Oliver’s shocked face in his mind’s eye, and his heart (a heart, that’s right, he forgot he had a heart) almost shakes.

Fucking hell.

*******

“My mother is angry.” Oliver says, at dinner, a couple of weeks later. A small victory for Adrian, because after their - argument, for lack of better term - Oliver had started avoiding mealtimes again. Marcus had barely seen him in the gardens, even, at most a glimpse of fluffy brown hair. “She’s wreaking havoc on the crops right now.”

“So I’ve heard.” Marcus pokes at a piece of meat.

“She’s demanding for me to be released.” Oliver forges on, words stumbling out ungainly, a rush. He spears a cherry tomato onto his fork, before glancing up through long lashes at Marcus. “She still says you kidnapped me and she - well, she wants you to pay.”

“I’ve been summoned. As well as you - I suppose you got the message this morning.” Marcus meets Oliver’s gaze steadily, and if the younger god’s cheeks are rosy pink by the time Marcus looks away, well, that’s just a trick of the lighting.

“But I told you,” he says - weary, controlled enough that no anger and disappointment shines through, “I didn’t plan this.”

“You said,” Oliver says quietly. “But I, I just thought-”

Marcus pushes his way back from the table, fed up with Oliver’s questioning and tired to his bones of having to explain himself. “Trust me - I don’t make stealing away gods a hobby. Not even you.”

His heart is in his words, but he doesn’t know if Oliver realizes. “Just keep that in mind for tomorrow.”

Oliver stands too, steps echoing harshly against the cool floor, until he’s blocking Marcus from moving out of the chamber. And Marcus could - he could flick Oliver away with a snap of his fingers, but the young god looks pale and tired, still in the midst of his lost appetite and he’d rather not have to deal with an injured Oliver.

Couldn’t bring himself to cast Oliver away, anyways. He’s made some sort of peace with that.

“I didn’t send that pomegranate to you,” Marcus repeats, firm. “If I wanted you, I wouldn’t do it that way.”

“You -” Oliver wavers, seems to flicker between wanting and not. “You promise?”

“Gods don’t make promises.”

But Oliver takes a step closer, just so that the front of his shirt brushes up against Marcus’ heavy robe. “You had no idea I’d be down here.”

Marcus manages a minute shake of his head.

“But you didn’t cast me out.” Oliver says quietly, as if fitting puzzle pieces together to form a picture of what Marcus is actually saying. “You want me here.

Oliver licks his lips. “You want. You _do_.”

And then he leans forward, closes the gap, presses his warm lips to Marcus’ cold ones and at that - at that, Marcus lets the remnants of his self control fall off his shoulders.

One of them groans - Marcus isn’t sure who, but he’s betting on himself, because Oliver drags him impossibly closer, molds his body to Marcus’ and Marcus drags his fingers through tousled brown hair, feels the softness and cradles Oliver’s head reverently.

“You - you’re terrible.” Marcus mumbles before Oliver recaptures his mouth, hot and wet and wanting. He drags his hands down Oliver’s body, feels the hard line of ribs sticking out and his chest clenches painfully at the thought of Oliver wasting away again. Promises himself that his next course of action is to get Oliver to eat a full meal, will hand-feed him if it’s a must.

Oliver makes a sound, soft and pleased as Marcus drags teeth over his bottom lip, and when they pull away, both are breathing hard. Marcus wants - wants so much to press Oliver deep down into his bed and kiss every inch of pale creamy skin reverently, to wrap Oliver up in cool silken sheets and hold him close, but he’s not sure if what he craves is the same as the brunet standing before him.

“Please.” Oliver murmurs, and Marcus almost moans because gods - gods shouldn’t be pleading.

The covers must be cold against Oliver’s skin, him always running warm, warm like the living beings up above and when Marcus dips his head to kiss a trail down Oliver’s back, the latter arches against his touch. Curve of his spine a beckon for Marcus to come closer.

Marcus doesn’t dare open his eyes from this fantasy. “And what would your mother say?”

The laugh he receives is light and golden, an echoing halo around the dark chamber. “I’m centuries old. No doting parent can control me.”

“Fucking terrible.” Marcus says again, and then Oliver is kissing him, furious, passionate - teeth nipping and tongue delving and Oliver tastes honey sweet, probably delved into his preserves before dinner. Marcus trails a line of bites down that pale neck, marks the skin for tomorrow.

Tomorrow, when they appear in front of Lucius and his blasted council, Oliver’s skin will be littered with marks and his mother will bristle with rage and Marcus - well, Marcus will laugh to himself and whisk Oliver away and mark him with more.

Oliver makes this sound, desperate almost, when Marcus touches him and his whole body shakes beneath Marcu’s steady strokes, eyes screwed shut, moans as pretty as he looks. Marcus just watches, continues - plays Oliver’s body like a fiddle because he’s _allowed_ to.

“Please.” Oliver says again, begging this time. His fingers are tangled in Marcus’ hair and brown eyes are brilliant in the flickering firelight of the chamber. Parts his legs just so - an invitation.

Marcus dips his head down, seals their lips together, and gives Oliver everything that he asks for.

*******

Oliver’s mother is brimming with concern when they arrive, and Marcus almost grins at seeing her calm demeanor so shaken. When Oliver sheds his hood behind him, her chest heaves and a loud sigh fills the hall.

“Oliver, sweetheart.” She makes a move to embrace him, but Marcus keeps his distance.

“Still under my jurisdiction, Isla. Apologies.” But he’s anything but sorry.

Lucius looks bored in his seat, peacocks preening by his feet. “Marcus, do make this quick.”

“I really don’t see the issue.” Marcus says, feigning confusion. “He ate the fruit - he knows the rules.”

“He was tricked! There’s an issue with keeping the innocent captive.” Isla cries, and Andromeda looks on with sympathy, silver robe glinting with every nod of her head. Besides her, Sirius swallows a yawn. The collection of gods range from angry to bored - the perfect balance, in Marcus’ opinion, for his case to be accepted.

He catches Lavender’s gaze and Lavender giggles, gesturing to her neck. Marcus fights the urge to roll his eyes - Oliver hadn’t listened about covering up and it is Lavender’s domain, after all.

Oliver bristles at his mother’s words. “I’m not _captive_ -”

“And now you’ve gone and hypnotized him.” Isla finishes, hands on hips. She tries once again to reach for Oliver, but this time it is Oliver who pulls away, stepping closer to Marcus.

Marcus will not admit that he almost grins.

“Mother. I am fine.” Oliver says, hands outstretched and calm in posture and voice.

Lucius waves his hand dramatically, tosses his hair back. “If there really is no issue, then what are we all gathered here for? A waste of time. That’s what.”

Oliver’s mother looks at him in disbelief. “No issue? No issue? Look at him, he’s half wasted away to nothing! You,” She whirls around, points a stern finger into Marcus’ face, “Have you been starving him?”

“He’s the one who refuses to eat properly.” Marcus makes his voice cool, doesn’t let his own worries show, and Oliver has the grace to look ashamed as his mother gives him an exasperated look.

“What point are you trying to prove?” Isla says gently, hard face smoothing into motherly concern.

Oliver merely shakes his head, disregards the argument at hand. “Wasn’t used to it, Mother - but I’m fine now. I made a mistake, a silly one, but I’m willing to pay my dues.”

And when Isla still glares at Marcus, Oliver steps forward more. “He has a lovely garden. I get to spend time in it. It’s fine, Mother.”

“Well,” Lucius says, one hand stroking the feathers of his white peacock, and Marcus wants to launch that stupid bird out of the hall, just to spite Lucius and his drawling. “Well, if your son is staying out of his own will, admitting he made a mistake, it’s not Marcus’ fault is it?”

Isla opens and closes her mouth, but Oliver doesn’t make a move to come to his mother’s aid.

“Let the boy do what he wants, is what I say.” Sirius says, head lolled onto his fist. Andromeda seems torn between motherly compassion and the argument for independence.

Isla stiffens, seeing that she’s not going to get her way. “If I so much as see one scratch-”

“Or bruise.” Lavender waggles her eyebrows at Marcus, who continues ignoring her for fear of a blush reaching his cheeks.

“-you’ll be paying dearly.” Isla finishes, watching Oliver with a resigned frown. “And only six months.”

“Per year.” Marcus supplies helpfully. Isla looks like she’s one second from grabbing Sirius’ arrows and hurling them at him, but she takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring.

“I’m aware of the rules,” Isla says coldly, and then she does dart forward to caress Oliver’s arms and face, brow creasing. “Oh sweetheart, you’ll be safe, won’t you? Will try to let me know how you are?”

Oliver nods, smiling wanly back at his mother. “Of course.”

“I’ll come to get you, when this ends.” Isla reminds him, and raises an eyebrow at Lucius and Marcus for them to stop her. Marcus isn’t an idiot - he knows where his jurisdiction stops.

And then he’s had enough of Lavender’s snickering, Isla’s doting, and all of extended Olympus, so he grabs Oliver by the arm, and hauls him back down to the Underworld in a whir of dark robes. The frustrated yell at their abrupt departure rings after him, but then everything is peaceful - they land on the carpet and Oliver smiles delightedly as his bare toes dig into the softness.

“Back to bed then?” He asks hopefully, and Marcus almost, almost caves at the sly grin. But then he remembers Isla’s concern and decides otherwise.

“Why haven’t you been eating properly?” Marcus asks, cupping Oliver’s cheek with a decidedly gentle hand, one that the gods up in Olympus think he could never use. Oliver leans into his touch, eyelids flutter closed and at that Marcus really does have to hold himself back from throwing the young god onto his bed and lavishing him with attention.

Oliver bites his lip. “I - don’t eat much when I’m sad.”

Marcus starts. “Have I been making you sad?” He’d thought Oliver was angry, above anything else.

“Not now,” Oliver says hurriedly, clutching at Marcus’ robes. “But before - a little.”

“Why?” Marcus asks, because he’s confused, didn’t think Oliver had started out his stay with anything but anger and apathy.

“You wouldn’t pay attention to me,” Oliver’s voice is small, hesitant, as if he himself knows how silly the reason sounds. And Marcus almost laughs, almost, before he sees the very real pout on Oliver’s pretty lips. “Not even when I threw a fit, and I thought you’d be angry, but you just - wouldn’t even look at me.”

“You’ve been so spoiled.” Marcus smirks, and this time he doesn’t stop the urge to scoop Oliver up, hauls the young god into his arms and settles him back against the sheets. Oliver is a vision, angelic in the curve of his collarbone and the contrast of his dark lashes - angelic, but Marcus knows he’s anything but. “Lucky for you, I suppose, that I’m going to continue that.”

Marcus picks a handful of grapes from the garden, then spends the next hour or so feeding them one by one to Oliver while they watch the gargoyles bicker near the ceiling.

Oliver steals all the covers at night, he realizes, but Marcus finds it endearing.

Fuck, he’s going soft.

*******

Oliver has his head laying on Marcus’ chest, watching the flames flicker low in the fireplace and when he breaks the silence, Marcus is surprised, to say the least.

“How many lovers have you had?”

“What?” Marcus says without thinking, because the question has caught him completely off guard.

Oliver straightens up, turns around and his eyes don’t really spell accusation but some kind of guarded curiosity. “I mean, you’re a god. Of the Underworld. You hold a lot of power.”

Marcus keeps staring, and Oliver hesitates a little. “It’s been so long, I can’t be the first...one?”

Marcus threads his fingers through Oliver’s hair, short strands light against his nerve endings and he’s not one for lying, really. Has always been blunt and to the point because death isn’t something to skirt around. “You’re not.”

Oliver hums, lays back down, and his skin is warm against Marcus’, less fragile now that he’s eating fuller meals. “What do they do now?”

“I don’t know.” Marcus answers, still honest. “Once they go, they go.”

And when Oliver turns to face him again, straddles his waist, Marcus places his palms securely around Oliver’s hips. He’s smiling slightly down at Marcus, but there’s a tinge of something that can’t really be placed as well. “I’ll have to go.”

“I’m aware.” Because Marcus is - has a mental countdown of the months, because the seasons remain pretty static down here, and each day ticks off one more mark on the calendar, another trickle of sand down the hourglass. Oliver’s warmth is fleeting in Marcus’ mind.

Oliver brushes his nose against Marcus’ cheekbone, careful. “But I’ll always come back. Every year, until the end of Time.”

Marcus nods, unsure of where this is going.

“Would that mean,” Oliver fiddles with the hem of his open shirt, looks up at Marcus again through long lashes and on anyone else it’d be coquettish but on Oliver it just looks earnest. “Does that mean I’m - I’m it? For you?”

Marcus can only swallow, looks at this beautiful, beautiful god hovering over him, all bright eyed and pretty pouty mouthed. He leans up to kiss him, makes a pleased noise as Oliver lets him deepen the kiss with little resistance.

“If you want to be. It’s up to you.”

Oliver rests his head against his collarbone, and Marcus can smell the citrus of his hair, the sweat and scent of their lovemaking. He’s not sure what the place will be like when it’s just him, alone in his chambers.

It’s another hour or so before Oliver speaks again.

“I’d like to be responsible for something, then. When I’m down here - as much as I love ‘lazing in bed’ so to speak, I’d like to go out, do what you do.”

Marcus doesn’t even bother hiding the hopefulness in his voice - Oliver would read him too easily, anyways. “Is that a proposition?”

“If you’ll have me.” Oliver says, quiet and the hope is mirrored in his voice. Marcus slides himself down the bed until they’re eye to eye, holds Oliver’s chin between his forefingers so the younger can’t look away.

When they kiss again, it’s slower than normal, a promise of sorts. “I’ll have to show you the ropes tomorrow,” Marcus peppers Oliver’s grin with more butterfly kisses. “Take you around and let everyone know.”

“Show-off.” Oliver laughs, but he smiles so bright, Marcus is reminded of how he’s the son of the goddess of life and harvest. A sunshine boy with the world at his feet and radiance in his hair. And now, all his. It’s natural, he tells Oliver, to want to show off something this good.

*******

Oliver takes to everything quickly, bright and mischievous enough to win over hearts - dangerous enough when pressed to strike fear in people who try to worm their way out of their dues. Half the time Marcus just sits there and watches in amusement as Oliver holds court, flattens protests and rule-breakers with his heel.

The Fates have blessed him with this one.

But six months stands like a beacon in his head, and he knows it’s bothering Oliver - Marcus is clung to a little tighter, and there’s more food left over after dinner.

“You’ll miss me?” Oliver murmurs one night, when they’re wrapped in each other more than the sheets.

“Don’t you miss Olympus?” Marcus asks instead of replying, because he can’t get the words out of his mouth.

Oliver rolls over, splays his arms over the large bed. “I...do. Sometimes. My mother, for one.” But when Oliver looks over, Marcus only sees the downturn of his mouth. “But I think it’ll hurt more - missing you.”

Marcus feels what little breath he’d been holding in escape in a whoosh. And then he kisses Oliver’s knuckles, reverent, pulls his love closer in the dark and relishes the steady heartbeat.

“Will you miss me?” Oliver asks again, eyes closed and voice almost swallowed by the dark.

“I think so.” Marcus manages, before tugging Oliver in, tries to kiss him with enough intent that Oliver will get everything else he’s unable to say out loud.

*******

Adrian has his hands folded politely behind his back, foot tapping anxiously against the cold floor. “Isla is here, Marcus. In the foyer.”

He sends a warning glance over - Oliver is curled up half in Marcus’ lap, the two of them squishing into one throne and Marcus knows Isla won’t be pleased when she sees what exactly her son has been getting up to in the Underworld.

“She’ll find out at some point.” Oliver says, unbothered. He nibbles lightly at another piece of chocolate, ignoring both Adrian and Marcus’ chiding protests. Won’t eat a proper meal when he’s sad, Marcus thinks, and yet capable of eating full bars of chocolate in one day.

Even then, the force with which Isla slams open the doors when Adrian unlocks it has both Oliver and Marcus jolting in their seat. She stops abruptly at her son settled comfortably in Marcus’ arms and her mouth twists at the sight.

“Marcus.” Isla’s voice is stiff. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Your son’s become well acquainted with the Underworld.” Marcus says lightly, too good of an opportunity to get on her nerves. Isla’s jaw twitches and Oliver bats at his chest, a slight reprimand.

Isla strides a couple feet closer, extends her hand. “Oliver, let’s go.”

There’s a weary sigh that echoes around the hall when Oliver untangles himself from Marcus’ limbs, and immediately, Marcus misses his warmth. He grits his teeth, however - won’t let Isla go running back to Olympus to spout half-truths of Marcus going _soft_.

“I’ll see you, Oliver, in half a year.” Marcus says, standing to his full height and speaking louder than he needs it to be. It gets his point across, regardless, much to his satisfaction - Isla’s brow furrows but the agreement has been settled, and she can’t do much to protest it.

Oliver is about to take his mother’s arm, when he hesitates - and then he’s darting back to where Marcus is standing, pressing his lips hard against Marcus’, fists curled into the front of heavy robes.

“Don’t forget me.” Oliver says and there’s that familiar gleam in his eyes, fierceness masking the sadness. “Don’t - don’t write me off like all of your previous lovers. Like some spoiled brat from Olympus. I’m coming back.”

“You’ll be back soon.” Marcus soothes and instead of kissing Oliver like he so desperately wants, he untangles their bodies. He knows if he caves he won’t bear to let Oliver leave his arms.

The sigh comes from Isla now, and she’s watching them with resignation, mouth a thin line. “Oliver - come.”

“Alright,” Oliver says quietly, eyes not leaving Marcus’ face, “Alright, I’m going.”

The door closes with a heavy slam, Adrian slipping out steps behind Isla’s long green dress and then it’s just Marcus, alone in the grand empty hall.

*******

The days are less days, more long stretches of time and Marcus is bored. So goddamn bored now that it’s just him doing the things that need to be done. Even the shrieks of the damned aren’t fun anymore.

Until one day Adrian pops into his chambers, voice urgent. “Marcus. Marcus, some of the gargoyles have gotten out and they’re causing trouble up above.”

Marcus sighs. The blasted pests - sometimes he wonders why he still keeps them around, and what they could possibly be doing now.

He tracks them down by their guffaws, their grunts and their cackles of laughter - nears a clearing in the forest not far from the base of Olympus, and he’s about to reprimand and throw a curse as a warning to the little stone beasts, except -

In the middle of the clearing, looking far too happy to be tied up, is Oliver.

“Hi,” Oliver grins, “Are you here to rescue me?”

Marcus releases the ropes with a flick of his fingers, glares at the gargoyles until they get the message. When they finally retreat back down, Marcus turns an appraising eyebrow on Oliver.

“You know this isn’t allowed, right?”

“How so?” Oliver asks, still cheerful, and bouncing on his feet, “I just got caught. And you had to come get them. It happens sometimes, you know.”

Marcus sighs, and the moment he uncrosses his arms, Oliver’s running over and kissing him breathless.

“I missed you,” Oliver murmurs, pressed close, “So much that I had to think of something. Forgive me.”

“Just don’t do it again,” Marcus chides but he finds he’s not that bothered by the extraneous trip, not with Oliver warm and solid in his arms. He pulls away to give Oliver a look. “The others will have my head if I stay for more than ten minutes. And I won’t be as kind as I was this time.”

Oliver smiles. “I understand.”

*******

Marcus takes one look at the chaos in front of him and groans. “Darling, while I’m flattered you miss me so much, this is the fifth time you’ve caused a ruckus just to get me to come up.”

“Shut up, oh mighty god of the Underworld, and come give me a kiss.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> A moodboard based on this: http://marcusflint.co.vu/post/151490627922/marcus-x-oliver-gods-au-for-anon-send-me
> 
> Thank you for reading! Join me at mxrcusflint on tumblr for more screaming about Flintwood.


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